


A Nightmare in June 183--

by This Waiting Heart (ThisWaitingHeart)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen, Gothic, Let's be honest, Literary References & Allusions, Romantic as in the literary period of course, all of them at some point, masquerading as, probably crackfic, very Gothic, very Romantic too, will add tags as we go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-05-28 14:08:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15050816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisWaitingHeart/pseuds/This%20Waiting%20Heart
Summary: There once wasa tumblr postthat reimagined Les Amis as Gothic fiction tropes. My mind went wild with the idea, and here we are: Les Amis, reimagined, with gratuitous literary references to various Romantics and other assorted writers.This is a work in progress; I will add tags and warnings as we go along.(I can promise that this will stay pretty much PG, though, except for the occasional creepyness along the lines of ETA Hoffmann or EA Poe).





	1. Editor's Preface

** Editor's Preface **

 

To the most courteous reader—

The events on which this fiction is founded, have been supposed, by some of the most eminent scientists of our time, as not of entirely _impossible_ occurrence, even though they might, at times, appear _improbable_ or downright _phantastic_. These erudite gentlemen, Messrs. H., G., and S. not the least among them, assure me, however, that everything that is being reported in this volume is founded on meticulous observation rather than the fanciful imaginations of an unquiet mind.

Being more of a man of letters myself, I can not begin to presume to know the veracity of such an assessment; I can, however, offer my opinion as to their _literary_ merit. This, I believe, is twofold: The contents of this volume have both the potential to _entertain_ , and to _educate_. The exceptional fortitude in the face of adversity demonstrated by the unhappy young man whose correspondence has fallen into my hands and who we must consider the unlikely hero of this story can serve as a model and an inspiration to readers of all ages. His careful attention to detail, paired with his exemplary empathy, his keen sense of reality, and his unbridled curiosity, make him an excellent observer both of the nature of the world around him, and of his fellow man.

As for the form of this volume, the editor has taken some liberty with the arrangement of the following documents, notably to establish a semblance of chronology which was not present in the material when it first fell into his hands. Sadly, the collection is in overall regrettable shape: Several letters seem to be missing, others are incomplete, scorched, or otherwise badly damaged. Likewise, none of the replies of Monsieur P.’s correspondent have come upon us. To alleviate what must seem a terrible deficiency to anyone hoping for a _complete_ image of the young man’s experiences, the editor has seen fit to add his own observations wherever necessary and appropriate. He has also added titles to the separate tales that make up this collection, a step in which he considers himself justified based on the obvious awareness the author of these documents has shown of their individual merit.

In the hope that these editorial decisions meet with the reader’s approval,

I remain most faithfully,

V.H.

Paris, May 15th 1862


	2. The Mysterious Monsieur B. and Other Illustrious Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet some of Monsieur P.'s friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honesty Hour: I have no idea whether Courfeyrac's bookseller friend has a name. Right now, I'm following the age-old rule of 'when in doubt, make something up'.  
> I'm sorry this is just a bit more of an introduction; I'm still figuring out some of the chronology, but I hope we'll get to more story & good old Gothic weirdness soon.

P—, August 2nd, 18—[1]

 

Dear Th—,

I am sorry to have kept you waiting for an answer for such an awfully long time, especially since your last letter was received most gladly. My only excuse for keeping such a long silence is that I have been kept exceptionally busy, and by work, no less!

I am happy to report that I have made great progress in obtaining employment, most of it being translation work of some kind. I’m translating mostly from the English, but I have also started studying German in the hopes of picking up more work in the future. I know that alone must sound tedious to you, so I will not bore you with any more details, and tell you about the friends I’ve made here instead. Because friends they are, and what friends indeed!

Prime among them is my dear Courfeyrac – _de_ Courfeyrac, though you should not let him hear you call him that, for he does not care for such titles. We met by chance, which seems to generally favour him, and for once it favoured _me_ as well. He is one of the kindest, most affectionate fellows you have ever met, and with Courfeyrac at your side introductions to the highest and the lowest circles are equally possible. He knows and loves practically everyone, and has no qualms about making them know and love you, too. He has been tremendous help with getting into Monsieur V.’s good books with my translation work, and what little free time I can spare between my work and my studies is usually spent in his company. It was him who introduced me to most of my other acquaintances here, the only one not from this circle of friends being the mute girl living next door.

Then there is Bahorel, a boisterous fellow, as bold in his opinions as he is in his sartorial choices. I must admit that I felt intimidated by him at first, but my friends assured me that he was none to be afraid of. There is only one mystery about him – that of his mistress, whose name Jean Prouvaire likes to call a secret kept better than the location of the Holy Grail. I suppose that must be a great mystery indeed, but so far I have not been able to make dear Jean explain himself to me. He is a great mystic, our Jehan, but not always the most adept in making his fancies understood by those not yet privy to them.

As for Monsieur B.’s occupation, that is another mystery, though none of my other friends seem to think so. In fact, I was so puzzled, I asked about it on the first or second evening spent in their company.

“Oh, he is a student of the law,” one of the gentlemen of the company remarked, a young man that had once introduced himself to me as L’Aigle, but whose name seemed to be changing with the seasons. “Though you should never ask him about that,” he warned me, “for he has sworn to never be a lawyer.”

I was much confused by this. How could anyone be a student of the law – and for several years, by the looks of it – yet profess never to practice his art? But profess he did indeed, and he never seemed to get any closer to graduating, either.

 

[There is a gap in the letter here and the following lines are scribbled hastily at the bottom of the page.]

 

Th—

Courfeyrac just came over to invite me out to dinner and I have to run; I promise to finish my tale some other time.

Until then,

I remain your affectionate cousin, friend &c, M.

 

[1] This letter seems to be the first in the series, and it is one of the few dated ones. Most of the letters seem to be adressed to one Monsieur Th--, surname unknown, who the editor assumes to be the young man’s cousin.


	3. More About the Mysterious Monsieur B., and Also Something of His Green and Golden Mistress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a guess who has transformed their general annoyance with life into passive-aggressive creative energy? Yeah. I like to tell myself Bahorel would understand.
> 
> (Also, sorry I'm giving you this letter by letter; it's the easiest way to ensure reasonably regular progress and keep my perfectionism in check.)

[later that year, possibly November]

Dear Th—,

things are looking up! Blondeau is reading again, and I am back to attending lectures while I can afford it. Courfeyrac, Lesgles, and Enjolras are also reading law. So is Bahorel, apparently, though he never shows. He is not struck from the lists, neither, and it is the strangest spectacle you could imagine. I was witness to it again just yesterday. What will happen is usually this: Blondeau will start calling out the names, and as soon as he gets to the letter B – which is very soon indeed seeing that it appears so very early in the alphabet – he will either startle and then skip his name entirely, or he will read it out the required three times but never deliver the final blow. It is not just Blondeau, either. The same thing will happen in any other subject, read by any other professor, at any given day of the week. It is as if the whole law faculty are going out of their way to avoid having to expell him, and it is most unusual behaviour. I think I have already told you about my curiosity regarding this matter; I can now also confess that it has led me to make a fool of myself.

The way this happened was thus: I was spending an afternoon at one of the cafés that have been so _en vogue_ with my friends as of late. I can’t recall which one it was (fashions seem to change quickly these days and I can never keep up), but it hardly matters, anyway. I can’t afford this luxury often, but sometimes I need to do my work somewhere other than at my lodgings, and the company of my friends never fails to make the task less miserable. I was trying to get through a translation of a terribly tedious German treatise on advancements in gold mining while Bahorel and Grantaire were engaged in a game of backgammon, cheered on by Joly and Lesgles. Courfeyrac was somewhere around, too, but he was flitting in and out of conversations as was his habit and thus proved rather more of a distraction than I would have liked.

Thinking the moment as good as any, I decided to take my chance and finally ask Bahorel about his strange agreement with the law faculty. He took a long draught from his cup and looked at me curiously for a moment, then he burst out laughing. Soon the others joined in, and I, being suddenly the butt end of a joke I didn’t fully understand, was too embarassed to ask any more questions.

***

Chance would have it that I came across him more than once in the following days.

First, I met him at a bookshop in the Rue de – where I hoped to pick up a new German dictionary that the proprietor had promised to order for me. The dictionary had not yet arrived, but Bahorel was there next to a shelf of sheet music, smiling and greeting me with a mock-bow. Suddenly reminded of our most recent encounter, I was so embarassed that I dropped my own notes. I scrambled to retrieve them, and when I looked up again, he was gone. The only thing reminding me of his presence was a curiously damp smell.

Then, I passed him in the street a few days later, and this time he was in the company of a beautiful lady. She was dressed at the height of fashion, exquisite but refined. Her dress was of a shimmering cloth, the colour of which struck me most: It was of a dark, green and golden hue that caught the sunlight like the ripples of the waves on the Seine when a boat passed by. The colour complemented her pale complexion and her dark hair, fashionably curled around her face and held up with a mother of pearl comb. I thought her somewhat overdressed for an afternoon walk, especially since she was wearing neither coat nor bonnet – but, me not being an expert in fashion, and women’s dress in particular, you should probably not take my word on that. Bahorel seemed to have no such qualms; he was attired in an equally flamboyant manner, though with slightly more consideration for the advanced time of the year.

He did not notice me, but his lady must have caught me looking. She had a curious, inquisitive gaze that she now fixed on me, and very dark blue eyes the colour of storm clouds. Something in them had me nearly transfixed on the spot and I couldn’t help myself but to turn my head after them when they passed.

That turned out to be a mistake. Being so caught up by the sight of Monsieur B. and his lady, I did not notice the old apple seller who passed on my other side, and we both tumbled and fell in a heap of apples, baskets, and cursewords. Of the latter, the old woman seemed to have an almost infinite supply, and I’m ashamed to admit at least half of them were appropriate. I apologized profusely and helped her reclaim her wares as well as I could as a matter of course, but I fear the street urchins had a field day with some of those goods that quite literally escaped our grasp.

[…][1]

 

[1] Here follow a couple more general replies about Monsieur Th.‘s most recent letter which the editor has deemed irrelevant for the progress of this tale and thus omitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna add formal apologies to the people I "borrowed" from from now on. This chapter's formal apology goes to ETA Hoffmann, for what I believe are pretty obvious reasons. 
> 
> (The introduction's apologies go to Mary Shelley and Vicky H.)


End file.
